


Bravery is Reinventing Yourself

by coldfiredragon



Series: Because You Made Me Brave [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bravery timeline, Eliot's hard glossy armor is his wardrobe, F/M, M/M, Post-Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Margo, Psychological Trauma, Q and Alice are in a toxic relationship, Sensory Deprivation, Touch-Starved, depressed Eliot, ignoring the BS Finale, post-monster, vague timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 12:33:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18521608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldfiredragon/pseuds/coldfiredragon
Summary: With Margo's help, Eliot reinvents himself post-monster with clothes.  He's done it before, what's the harm in doing it again?





	Bravery is Reinventing Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> This series is going to hop around in the timeline as ideas come to me. This one is set in the first week or so post-monster possession.

Margo gently pets her fingers through Eliot's ridiculously long locks as her best friend's head lays pillowed in her lap. Right now his eyes are closed while his face is turned in towards her stomach, and his legs are drawn up in an almost fetal position. He's listless in a way that breaks her heart but a couple of days of rest have started to help. The circles under his eyes aren't as dark now, even though he's still not sleeping properly, and the curls under her hands are clean and soft again. He's too thin, and the clothes... a borrowed sweater and loose jeans they'd had to charm to be long enough are a far cry from the posh, polished veneer that Eliot had perfected. 

A key turns in the lock, then the door swings open and Quentin and Alice traipse in. The pair had gone to brunch, and Margo had expected them to be light and giggly from too much champagne when they got back. Instead, they are almost silent. Alice has her chin held high, and Quentin's hands over shoved in his pockets. The pair look at her and Eliot, Alice's eyes narrow, then she storms off without a word while Quentin lingers. He starts to take a step in their direction and Margo gives him a glare that is ugly and scary enough to stop the step mid-motion. His shoulders fall, and the cuff of his sweatshirt covers part of his hand when he brings his palm up to wipe at his eyes. Fuck him; Margo doesn't give a fuck. Eliot must know he's still there because his whole body has tightened, fight or flight, with nothing left to fight for and nowhere to go. 

Quentin tries to finish his step, but Margo shakes her head. A subtle left to right motion, a silent challenge. _Don't you fucking dare, Coldwater._ His eyes drop to the floor, and he wipes at his face with the cuff of his sleeve. It's not her fault they are broken, but if he thinks she's going to let him anywhere near El when she has a say he's gravely mistaken. Finally, he turns and takes the stairs up to the bedrooms as fast as he can. They hear a door slam, and Eliot relaxes. When Margo looks down at him, there are tears silently streaming down his face. 

There aren't words; Margo wants to rip Quentin's heart out through his nose. She pets Eliot's hair instead. 

“Let's get out of here for a few hours. We'll get your hair cut, go shopping, then have lunch at some overpriced bistro I know you'll love.” Her fingers tangle through the curls as she waits for Eliot to either nod or tell her no. 

“Okay.” The word feels so small like he's giving in for her sake and not his own, but Eliot's legs uncurl, then he sits and scrubs at his face with the sleeve of the sweater. Margo thinks it might be one of Quentin's and it puts all the more emphasis on getting Eliot back to himself, in his own brand of hard glossy armor. She'll make him look like a million bucks, and Coldwater's jaw will shatter the goddamn floor when he sees him. 

\--------------------------

A haircut helps. Eliot had been debating precisely what he wants to do with since he'd woken up to find it so long and had chosen a middle length cut. One a little longer than it had been as a student, but infinitely shorter than the reaches the Monster had let it reach. It feels different, lighter on his neck, yet more substantial than the vague sense memories he'd had while trapped in his mind. A shiver races down his spine. Once he'd realized nothing was real, it had started to mess with his head, and the longer he'd been trapped, the more of a toll it had begun to take. He'd started to compare it to the fucking Matrix of all movies, and how certain foods tasted the same because the electrical impulses in his brain hadn't been able to fill in all the gaps. 

His sense of touch had been the first thing to truly go wonky. Everything had felt smooth after a while, and just thinking about it makes the tips of his fingers itch. As he and Margo browse through their first boutique, he realizes with a start that just touching silk with his fingers feels wrong. He can't imagine wearing it, of having the smooth, soft fabric pulled tight across his chest and down his arms, over his back. His breath hitches. 

“El? Baby? Hey, hey, eyes on me.” Margo's hands cup his face and Eliot realizes he's wrapped the shirt around his hand and is squeezing. He forces himself to let go and tries to smooth out the wrinkles. He's going to have to find something different for now; maybe it's for the best. He's reinvented himself before, and he can do it again. He needs clothes that aren't in his memories. One of the most beautiful things about the penthouse is how unfamiliar it is. When he wakes up its like no place, he's lived in his life, and he knows its real. Maybe clothes can have the same effect; maybe they can ground him and help him heal. 

“I can't...” His hands flex. “I couldn't...” He closes his eyes and feels Margo's thumbs brush at the tears that escape. He rubs his hands against the fabric of the jeans he's wearing, and the texture helps make the tingling in his fingers go away. He feels centered, calmer, and he sniffs quietly, as he takes a step back from Margo to wipe at his eyes. The words come in a rush. “I was trapped in my memory, Bambi and I didn't have any link to my body. I couldn't feel it touch anything, and it got to me. I couldn't imagine textures that I wasn't familiar with; it all bled together.” His gaze finds hers, and the heartbreak makes him wish he hadn't said anything at all. 

“So what can we do?” It only lasts a minute, then his Bambi is right back on task, always the problem solver. His eyes drop to her arms, and the livid brands that will forever be there as reminders of what she gave up for him. She had deserved to be king way more than he ever had. 

“I need something different.” He gives her a weak smile. “Texture helps.” His hands rub at the jeans again. “But they would have to be designer, and fitted.” 

“Does Armani even make jeans?” Margo asks. She face is a mix between sympathetic and disgusted, like she hates the idea of him changing his style, but at the same time, she realizes the necessity of it. “So what are you thinking?” 

“I'm thinking...” Eliot's eyes fly around the store, cataloging what he can see and trying to pick an aesthetic that will fit him without being antithetical to everything that got him to this point. “Designer prep maybe? Less three-piece suit and more polo shirt.” Margo rolls her eyes as though the very idea bores her. 

“We can make it work, and anything is better than you moping around the penthouse in Quentin's cast-offs.” Eliot's breath hitches, subconsciously he'd guessed where the clothing had come from, but to hear it said aloud makes his chest feel tight. He wraps his arms around his torso and looks at his shoes. He needs new everything, and he isn't sure he has the energy to tackle all of it in one day.


End file.
